Tension and Release
by Wynn
Summary: New part added 05.23. Draco lives a life of control, constantly searching for release from the tension. Hermione lives a life of chaos, attempting to impose order on her life. A conversation between them changes everything.
1. Chaos

Title: Tension and Release 

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Harry Potter.  They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc.  No copyright infringement intended.  _

AN: Spoilers up to GoF with an AU 5th year.  Fic set in AU 6th year.  I've only read OotP once, as opposed to the three times for both PoA and GoF, and therefore don't feel comfortable referencing the book.    

This and the Draco POV are companion pieces.  They cover the same set of events, but from different perspectives.  There are similar sections in both texts and this similarity is intentional.  So, first up, Hermione.  Then, Draco.  Enjoy, and remember feedback is a wonderful thing. 

Chaos

By: Wynn

            Hermione Granger lived life according to a very simple plan.  She would graduate Hogwarts first in her class.  She would accept a job at the Ministry of Magic, hopefully as an Auror, possibly something regarding Magical-Muggle relations.  She would become the youngest Minister in history, weeding out the corruption and chaos created by Fudge and his ineptitude.  Anything more complex or detailed than her very simple plan would be completely and utterly destroyed by the chaos that was her life, that had been her life since her initial introduction to Harry Potter over five years ago.  Harry drew danger to him like the moth to the proverbial flame, or maybe danger drew itself towards Harry like a predator in search of the most delectable prey.  Intent.  Insistent.  Inevitable.  

            Whichever the case, life as best friend to Harry Potter tended to place one regularly in contact with life or death situations that existed within the clutches of fickle fortune.  Sometimes good people died and evil people triumphed, no matter how much Hermione wished otherwise.  She learned that fact the hard way, watching Harry, watching everyone, struggle with Cedric's death.  So Hermione handled these uncontrollable, life or death situations as gracefully as possible, attempting to impose cool rationality onto explosive confrontations, using her intellect as her weapon of choice to ensure the survival of her and her friends.  

            But the emphasis of death over life grew the past few years, and she feared many of her friends would not live past graduation, that Voldemort and his sick followers would destroy everyone she knew and loved, would destroy her world so completely no amount of logic could make the pieces fit back together again.  So Hermione stopped planning for the future, too intent on dealing with the present, too focused on surviving the past.  She lived her life in a constant state of uncertainty, living day to day, placing one foot in front of the other, her future stretching before her like a highway at night, a murky cover of darkness carefully concealing its upcoming twists and turns.  

            Not that she minded the uncertainties she lived with every day.  Not much anyway.  If living a safe and predictable life was the price to be paid for inaction, for turning a blind eye and a cold shoulder towards the injustices of the world, toward the threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters, she would pass.  Hermione couldn't sit idly by and do nothing.  Not when people were dying.  Not when people could be saved.  So she willingly threw herself from the frying pan into the fire, determined to aid Harry and Dumbledore any way she knew how.

            But sometimes.  Sometimes she longed for the simplicity and security of her life before Hogwarts.  When everything made sense and fit into her notions of right and wrong, good and evil, acceptable and unacceptable.  When she didn't have to worry about who to trust, who might be a servant of Voldemort, who might be trying to kill her or Ron or Harry or Dumbledore next.  When her future was about as mysterious as an _I Can Read _book.  

            Sometimes late at night she'd wonder what her life would have been if she hadn't received that first fateful letter from Hogwarts.  If she hadn't come across Harry and Ron on the train.  If they hadn't rescued her from the troll, cementing their friendship in a foundation of absolute trust and unflinching bravery.  But after a moment of contemplation, she'd brush away these idle musings.  Wishing for alternatives accomplished nothing save wasting valuable time and energy, and there was much more Hermione needed to focus her mental and physical resources on than flights of fancy.

            So instead of wishing for another life, Hermione struggled to impose order on the one she lived.  Tried to live her life as calmly as possible, controlling what she could control, finding ways to deal with what she could not.  And one aspect of her life she could always control was her studies.  Hermione focused upon her studies with a fierce determination and intensity that Ron described as 'freakishly scary.'  But he didn't understand.  Her books provided a sanctuary, a haven, from the dangerous world around her.  Answers to the unknowns could be found, if only she looked hard enough, dug deep enough.  Her hard work determined her marks, not some other unquantifiable independent variable.  Her destiny was hers to control.  

            And when she studied, she didn't have to think.  Think about the upcoming war.  Think about Cedric.  Think about the possibility of living in a world without Ron and Harry and Ginny and Mrs. Weasley and everyone else she loved.  Hermione filled her brain with Arithmancy and Potions and random History facts to beat back the tidal wave of emotions surging inside of her before she drowned under her grief and pain and rage.  Books didn't care what sort of mood she was in.  Books didn't shoot her looks of pity, looks of remorse, looks of anger, hatred, or jealousy.  They were her refuge from the storm, her own beacon of light guiding her to a world that made sense and that she could make sense of.  They kept her from going insane from the insanity she lived, breathed, and fought in every day of her life.

            Sometimes.  Sometimes Hermione thought she might be better off if she didn't care so much.  If she didn't care about what happened to Harry and Ron; if she didn't care about the defenseless and powerless.  If she could squash her emotions deep down inside her, lock her heart behind an adamantium cage and switch off her emotions as quickly and efficiently as a light switch.  If she could look upon the world with cool, detached eyes and be solely ruled by objective logic instead of muddled subjective reasoning.  Like _him_.  Sometimes Hermione watched Draco in Potions, or across the Great Hall, and observed his aloof demeanor.  He moved and breathed as though nothing affected him, like he was an impenetrable fortress of cool, calm, and collected the outside world could only penetrate on his command.  And she wished for just an ounce of his poise, his indifference.  Then she could be smarter, be faster, be better, with no guilt to slow her down, to take precious time away from researching and fighting and living and surviving.

            But if being indifferent meant being an egotistical, smarmy bastard, Hermione would take emotionality any day.  She would simply work harder at regulating her feelings, restraining them so she could function properly without breaking down into a sobbing, whimpering, simpering heap.  

            And it was this need for control that had brought Hermione to the library.  If she had to sit and watch Harry brood about Voldemort, watch everyone sit helpless like ducks in a shooting gallery waiting for the inevitable to occur, waiting for the war to begin, waiting to die, Hermione felt she would scream.  She needed a moment, just a moment, of concretes instead of persistent what-ifs.  So she escaped to her sanctuary, claiming the need to begin working on Snape's essay that everyone knew wasn't due for another three weeks but accepted as the reason for Hermione's desperate flee from the common room.  Typical Hermione.  War's brewing and she's more worried about homework than dying.  

            It was just as well everyone thought what they did.  Even if she could find the words to adequately express her emotions, her desperation for order and logical sense, the feeling of her mind fraying under the constant chafing of possibilities and potentialities, she doubted anyone would understand.  Harry and Ron would try, of course.  Try to make her feel better with a crack about Snape, or Malfoy, and she'd smile and they'd smile, but then conversation would inevitably drift back to Death Eaters and Voldemort and evil plans and war and death and what if, what if, what if, and Hermione couldn't deal with the hushed whispers and somber meditations.  Not tonight.

            Not tonight.

            So when the first tingle of awareness prickled the back of her neck and she peeked through her mass of curls and saw the set of black school robes standing before her table, Hermione prayed.  She prayed to a god she wasn't sure existed anymore to whisk this person away and leave her in peace.  She peeked through her hair again and saw smooth, pale hands settle onto the back of a chair, saw the Slytherin crest plastered to the front of the robes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sighing.  Of course.  It had to be Malfoy.  It couldn't be Harry or Ron or someone _reasonable she could politely chat with for a few moments before covertly suggesting they leave the library and her alone.  It had to be __him.  _

            Her quill hovered over her parchment scribbled with notes on Snape's essay as Hermione debated whether to attempt to ignore Malfoy or give in and engage him in conversation.  Conversation.  Hermione nearly laughed.  More like engage in verbal battle.  She doubted Malfoy was capable of carrying on a civilized conversation; his entire vocabulary consisted of nothing but foul and hateful language, language he unleashed on everyone and anyone with a vicious relish and a cruel sneer that made Hermione shudder with revulsion.  If the day came that Malfoy conversed civilly with someone, she felt she would die from shock because Hell most certainly would have frozen over.

            Hermione checked again, and he was stillstanding there.  Still.  Honestly, didn't he have anything better to do than pick a fight with her?  There were three other houses and six other years worth of students to torment, and he had to choose her.  Tonight.  Now.  Hermione allowed the sigh to escape her lips as she placed her quill onto the table.  She flipped an errant curl away from her face and glanced up at Malfoy.  

            His hands were clenched around the chair before him and his grey eyes were wide and locked on her.  The sneer that normally marred his features was gone, replaced by an expression Hermione was too tired to attempt to analyze.  "What do you want, Malfoy?"

            "I-"

            "I really need to finish this essay for Snape, and I have the project for Professor McGonagall I need to start working on, so whatever it is you have to say, just say it and go."  

            "I…"

            Hermione frowned.  She was sure her interruption alone would have earned a sharp retort from Draco, not to mention her succinct dismissal of him and whatever problem he had with her now.  Instead… he hesitated.  Draco, who wielded words more gracefully and dangerously than anyone else Hermione knew, hesitated in responding.  To her.

            Strange.  Most strange.

            Malfoy straightened, thrusting his shoulders back and his chin into the air, as though he had resigned himself to some horrible fate and would face it head on.  Through clenched teeth he said, "I would very much like to sit here, Hermione.  If that is alright with you."

            Hermione?  Since when did Malfoy address her by her given name?  What happened to Granger?  Beaver?  Mudblood?  Her brain unable to process this twist on an already strange encounter, she failed to develop a suitable response to his declaration.  Well, whatever game he was playing at, he could play it alone or find another victim.  She didn't… she couldn't deal with this new angle of attack.  Better to surrender the fight for the table and hoped immediate victory satisfied Malfoy.  

            Reaching for her parchment rolls and ink bottles, she muttered, unable to restrain bitterness from clouding her voice, "There are fifteen other tables in the library.  Why you want mine, I don't know.  But I'm too busy to fight with you-"

            "No-"

            His hand shot out, stopping inches from hers, and Hermione froze.  She was trying, honestly trying to avoid a confrontation, and he just wouldn't let it be.  Wouldn't let her be.  Fine.  If he wanted a fight, he would get one.  Five years of frustration and rage at constant fighting, with him, with Ron, with Harry, with Snape, against miscommunication, against prejudices, against hatred, Death Eaters, Death itself, burned within Hermione.  Even the calmest souls had their breaking points, and tonight Hermione Granger had finally reached hers.

            Her gaze drifted from his outstretched hand, across the table, up his body, until they met his eyes.  She raised one eyebrow.  Voice soft, voice deadly, she said, "Pardon?"

            Surprise flickered within his grey eyes.  Surprise mingled with a trace of fear.  Malfoy snatched his hand back, and Hermione could almost see the wheels of his brain turning, trying to work itself around her obviously unexpected rage.  Honestly, what sort of a reaction did he expect from her?  Welcoming smiles and open arms?  Please.  Whatever smooth talk he conjured to get himself out of the conundrum he'd created wouldn't work this time.  If she couldn't have peace, she'd have war.  On her terms.  And she'd win.  

            "No… I didn't mean that you had to move.  I meant… I wanted to sit here.  At the table.  With you."

            Malfoy looked at her warily, gauging her reaction to his words, and for the life of her, Hermione couldn't understand why.  He wanted to sit here?  With her?  Impossible.  Only a Malfoy under the control of the _Imperius Curse would ever consider lowering himself enough to sit at the same table as Hermione.  She was beneath him.  He'd told her as much with every hateful glare, disgusted sneer, and hardened scowl directed her way for the past five years.  But now he approached her as if those five years never existed, as if he didn't hate her and she didn't hate him.  "You want to sit here," she said flatly.  "With me."_

            Malfoy nodded.

            Or maybe.  Maybe there was another reason he wanted to sit here.  Maybe this was some sort of plan.  Some sort of joke cooked up by Malfoy and his Slytherin cronies to humiliate her.  She had her wand; she wasn't defenseless.  And she knew they would never do anything to hurt her, not at Hogwarts.  But humiliation.  Humiliation was a whole different ball game, one they could play without risk of expulsion.  "Is this some sort of joke?"

            Irritation flared on Malfoy's face as he snapped, "No.  It is not some sort of joke.  I am attempting to ask you nicely if I can sit at your table and you're turning it into some marathon worthy event.  It's a simple question, Granger.  Can I sit?  Yes or no."

            Bloody hell.  He was serious.  Malfoy wanted to sit here.  With her.  And he actually attempted to ask her permission if he could sit down instead of just sitting down.  He asked instead of taking.  Wow.  Hell had just frozen over, rendering one Hermione Granger completely speechless.  

            "Um…"  She glanced around the library.  The room looked normal, like the library she visited every day, so she doubted she'd been transported to some alternate dimension.  There were no other Slytherins hiding behind the book stacks, waiting for the opportune moment or secret signal to strike.  They were alone.  She was alone with Malfoy.  And he wanted to sit down.  

            "I…"  Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed a hand across the bridge of her nose.  So this was what insanity felt like.  Like she was perfectly normal while the world around her had gone completely mad.  Interesting.  "I _must_ be going mad," she muttered.  "Sleep deprivation does tend to do that to a person.  And Harry's always told me I need more sleep…"  But Hermione knew, deep down, this wasn't insanity.  This was an opportunity.  A choice.  For some unknown reason, Malfoy chose to extend the olive branch to her, to offer something other than insults and malice, and she could accept it and see where this rabbit hole led or she could reject it, reject him, and stay out of Wonderland.

            The choice boiled down to fear.  Was she too afraid to see what lay beyond the next few moments?  What lay beyond Draco's aloof demeanor?  Or would she risk it?  Risk getting hurt by the boy who had hurt her most the past five years?

            Fortune favors the brave, or so they say.  And Gryffindors were nothing if not brave.  So maybe this time fickle fortune would land on her side.

            Drawing in a deep breath, Hermione murmured, "I know I am going to regret this."  She opened her eyes, looked straight at Draco, and placed her bets on the riskiest of all gambles.  Hope.  "Yes, Malfoy.  You can sit down."

            Draco let out a relieved breath and eased down into the chair he had been applying the grip of death on.  He wanted this.  He really wanted to sit here, and it wasn't because of some sick Slytherin scheme or forced action from the _Imperius Curse.  Hermione was forced to amend her initial assessment of Draco as nothing more than a callous bastard.  More seemed to be going on behind those grey eyes than he let on._

            They gazed at each other for a moment, silent, before Draco rolled his eyes and said, "You can relax, Granger.  I'm not here to hurt you."

            "I suppose you're here for pleasant conversation then.  A meaningful chat between enemies."

             "Something like that, yeah."

            "Run out of victims in the Slytherin dungeon to listen to you?  I can't imagine why you can't find intelligent conversation there.  I mean, Crabbe and Goyle alone must provide countless hours of deep, philosophic thought."

            "Oh, like Potter and the Weasel are any better.  If it wasn't for you, they would have flunked out of Hogwarts their first year.  I can't imagine you having any conversation with them extending beyond 'Must. Kill. Dark Lord. Now.' and 'Please, sir, can I have some more?'"

            Of course, Hermione always tended to overestimate the goodness within a person.  Maybe nothing more _was going on within Malfoy than spite and sarcasm.  And if all he was going to do was insult her friends, she didn't want to expend the energy to try to puzzle out the mystery that was Draco Malfoy.  _

            "If this is your version of a meaningful conversation, Malfoy, I'll pass.  Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."  She cast him one last glare and then opened her Potions text, forcing her gaze on the tiny lettering on the parchment.  Hermione realized Malfoy responded to her own sarcastic remark about the intelligence level of his friends and his entire house, but it wasn't as though her statement was far off the mark.  Even Malfoy had to admit his two lackeys weren't the brightest crayons in the box.  She just stated a plain fact.  A bit nastily, maybe.  But it was a reflexive action, one ingrained from five years of fighting.  And it wasn't like Malfoy made any special effort to curb his own snark.  He pounced on the first opportunity presented to insult Ron and Harry.

            Hermione paused in her mental diatribe.  Great.  Now, she was rationalizing being nasty to Draco Malfoy, the reigning Prince of Mean.  As if this night couldn't deviate any farther from normalcy.      

            Out of the corners of her eyes, Hermione saw Malfoy lean back in his chair and fold his arms across his chest.  His grey gaze was fixed on her, plainly stating his refusal to give up and leave.  Why couldn't he just go?  Obviously a pleasant conversation would never occur between the two of them.  All they had were insults.  Why prolong the awkward torture any longer?  What did he hope to accomplish by continuing this farce of a civilized encounter?  Why couldn't he initiate himself into the land of social harmony with some other unwilling victim?  Why did it have to be her?  Why did it have to be _him?  Why did it have to be __now?_

            _And why was he still here?_

            Quill gripped to the breaking point, Hermione threw it down upon the table and sighed.  Her breath came out in a sharp gust of frustration, and she very nearly screamed as a faint smirk appeared on Malfoy's face.  He wanted to talk?  They would talk.  They would have the best conversation _ever and then he would go away and leave her alone._

            Hermione mimicked his pose, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest.  "You want to talk, let's talk.  What is it you want to talk about, Malfoy?  School?  Quidditch?  Secret Death Eater plans?  What?"

            Malfoy opened his mouth.  A nasty glint appeared in his eyes signaling the imminent arrival of some wicked language.  But before the comment escaped his lips, he snapped his mouth shut, abruptly biting off the words poised on the tip of his tongue.  His brows drew together in contemplation as his eyes scanned across the book laden table.  A moment passed and then a triumphant expression appeared on his face.  "Do you ever read anything other than school books?"

            He wanted to talk about… books?  Hermione supposed the topic of conversation wasn't _too_ far fetched.  Everyone knew she loved reading, and she seriously doubted Malfoy could converse with Crabbe and Goyle about literature.  But the fact that it was _Malfoy_ who_ wanted to talk about literature shocked her.  She knew he was intelligent, ranking right behind her in class standings.  But she never figured him for a pleasure reader.  She never figured Malfoy for a pleasure anything.  Looking over her school books strewn across her table, Hermione said, "Yes…  Mostly during summer break.  I don't usually have time during the school year to indulge in extracurricular reading."_

            He smirked.  "Too busy saving the world with Saint Potter and the Boy Blunder, I suppose."

            Anger flared within Hermione at his derogatory comment.  He was so… _difficult.  Prickly, with sharp edges and hard planes.  Nothing could ever be smooth around him, least of all a conversation.  Malfoy spoke again before she could end the exchange.  "So what do you read when you have the time?"   _

            "Lots of different things," she said slowly, shoulders lifting in a careful shrug.  Normally, Hermione would praise someone for possessing the drive and determination to see even the most difficult tasks through to the end.  But this was bordering on willful obstinacy.  He _must want to drive her insane.  That was the only logical explanation for this, for him, for them speaking together.  He can't really want to speak with her that much.  It didn't make sense.  He hated her.  Everyone knew that.  It was a plain and simple fact.  Like the sky being blue or the grass being green.  Malfoy hated Hermione.  But a tiny seed of doubt implanted itself within Hermione's mind, digging roots into her worldview and refusing to disappear.  Maybe there was more than just the hate.  Or maybe he wanted there to be more than hate.  And Hermione had to see.  Had to know.  Had to understand.  "I doubt you would know any of the authors.  They're mostly Muggle writers."_

            "Indulge my curiosity."

            Indulge his curiosity.  Or add ammunition to his arsenal.  She bit her bottom lip and debated what to tell him and what to keep to herself.  There was no way she would admit her love for Victorian romances, not even under _Veritaserum_.  Even if his intentions to converse with her were honorable, or as honorable as a Malfoy could be, he would still ridicule her for loving Austen, James, and the Bronte sisters.  Both Harry and Ron had, and they were her best friends.  What else could she talk with him about?  Poetry?  No.  For all of her adaptability and open mindedness, Hermione doubted _she could handle a discussion of poetry with Malfoy.  That would just be too strange.  Modern literature?  No.  The Industrial Revolution was probably a quaint little dream to the traditionalist Malfoy family.  Anything dating after the 19th century would be unknown and uninteresting to Malfoy.  What about Milton?  Shakespeare?  Chaucer?  _

            Inspiration struck.  Classical literature.  It was perfect.  High on adventure, magical creatures, death, and mayhem.  "Well," she began, voice soft and a bit hesitant, "I like a lot of classical literature.  I've read some of the ancient Greek playwrights.  I really love Homer's _The Odyssey.  Much more than __The Iliad.  __The Iliad's full of fighting and bloodshed and whinging, which frankly gets boring after a thousand lines or so.  But __The Odyssey has all sorts of mini-adventures and exotic creatures.  I first read it before I knew I was witch and that there was this real world with magical creatures residing in it."  Amusement tinged her voice as she remembered the first time she read _The Odyssey_, before she knew the truth about the myths__.  "And before I knew that Homer was a wizard and most of the creatures he wrote about were real."_

            She paused, mind sifting through her memories of times past, of simple, pleasure filled moments spent curled up on her bed, spent in another world, another time, another life.  It was… nice.  Innocent.  

            Malfoy shifted, breaking Hermione from her reverie.  She felt her cheeks grow hot in embarrassment at having been observed reminiscing.  At having been vulnerable.  Fingers twisting a lock of her hair, she cast a surreptitious glance in Malfoy's direction to see if he noticed her lapse in concentration.  If he had, he certainly wasn't showing it.  Head tilted to one side, Malfoy's gaze was fixed not on her face but on her hand.  On her hair.  His expression was soft, almost contemplative.  She doubted it was a face he showed others.

            "Malfoy?" she asked quietly.

            He started, eyes widening and snapping to her face.  The tips of his ears tinged pink.  "Yes?"

            Eyes narrowing, Hermione scrutinized Malfoy for a few moments.  She didn't understand what had just happened, but she knew it had to be important.  That the line they had been struggling across since the beginning of this bizarre conversation had finally been crossed.  Vulnerabilities on both sides had inadvertently been shown.  Turning back was not an option.  And even if it was, Hermione doubted she'd turn her back on this.  On him.  Not when she'd barely scratched the surface of his protective shell.  Not when there was so much else to learn about Draco.  Tongue darting out to moisten her lips, she said, "Do you, um, read books?  When you have the time.  That is, when you're not out torturing fist years or sacrificing goats to the Dark Lord."

            His fists tightened and anger sparked in his eyes, but only for a moment.  Draco froze as he focused upon the small grin on her face, and she would have laughed at his deer-in-the-headlights expression if she wasn't afraid he'd bolt at the slightest sound, slightest movement.  The moment passed, and then Draco relaxed, body melting back onto the contours of his chair, devil may care smirk appearing on his face.  "Yes, those pesky Dark rituals take up so much of my time, what with the laborious incantations and special dance required.  But I have been known to, on occasion, read a book."

            "And what type of book is exalted enough to hold the interest of Draco Malfoy?"

            "One with lots of fighting and bloodshed and whinging."

            She smiled at the sly look upon his face.  The notion that she was flirting with Draco and that he was flirting back with her flickered through her mind, but she brushed it away and refocused on the conversation.  "So you've read _The Iliad?"_

            "Of course.  It's a family tradition.  Helen of Troy's a distant relation to my family."

            "Seriously?  I don't believe you."

            Draco shrugged.  "Believe what you want.  Doesn't make it any less true.  One of her cousins married into the Malfoy family.  Used her Veela charms to seduce Belial Malfoy away from his first wife.  Quite the scandal back then."

            Hermione couldn't stop the full fledged grin from blooming across her face at the story he was spinning.  "Now you expect me to believe that Helen of Troy was a Veela?"

            Arching an eyebrow, Draco asked, "Do you honestly believe a normal, human woman could start a war that lasted for ten years?"

            "No, I don't suppose so."  She shook her head.  The smile still danced on her lips.  Wonders never ceased.  First Draco was civil.  To her.  Now he was borderline charming.  Strange how someone usually so vicious could also be mannered and sociable.  Pleasant even.  Although Hermione knew that many Muggle serial killers were very friendly and charming when the need arose.  And she had read reports of Tom Riddle's charismatic personality.   Not that she was comparing Draco to a serial killer.  Or to Voldemort.  But his father _was a Death Eater, and Lucius must have had _some _influence on Draco, and Hermione doubted the influence to be very positive._

            As much as she might have wanted to, Hermione couldn't deny the crueler aspects to Draco simply because he chose to be agreeable for a few minutes.  Memories of vicious taunts and smug smiles flashed in her mind.  Of manipulation and cheating and malice.  And once again, she wondered why he was here.  Whether or not this entire conversation was a set-up, a front for Draco to slip past her defenses and blind side her when she was vulnerable.  The smile faded from her face while she regarded Draco.  She didn't think that was the reason he was here.  To hurt her.  To manipulate her.  But she didn't _know.  And the only way she would know is if she asked._

            Hermione opened her mouth to speak as her gaze locked with Draco's.  His expression was resigned.  Worn.  Tired.  Like he knew she was about to question his motives, why he came to the library, why he sought her out.  And she dropped her eyes to the table, unable to unleash all of the inquiries inside of her.  He had opened up to Hermione.  Let down the bastard visage he perpetually wore.  Pulled back the curtain and allowed her to peek behind the veil.  And she couldn't betray that trust.  Not even to satisfy her own curiosity.  Best to end this interlude before she got in too deep.  Just in case she was wrong about him and he was here to hurt her.

            Her eyes flickered back up to his, and voice neutral, she began, "So-"

            "You can ask, if you want."  His words were rushed, stumbling over one another in a desperate flee from his mouth.  His hands gripped the armrests of his chair, but his eyes were wide, open, intense.  "I won't… I want…"

            He wanted her to ask.  Wanted her to know.  Wanted her to understand.  She searched his eyes, looking for any signs of deceit, of dishonesty, of deception.  Hermione couldn't find any, and her ability to detect lies had substantially improved over the last few years.  It had been a matter of survival, of saving herself from unknown potential dangers.  If she asked the words she wanted, needed, had to ask, she thought maybe, just maybe, one of the known dangers would somehow be eliminated.  That this was the point of no return, and if crossed, everything would change and nothing would be the same ever again.

            "Why did you come here, Draco?"

            Draco stayed silent, returning her assessing gaze.  Her head spun from the stare, but she held his gaze.  A minute passed before he spoke.  "When you read it's for pleasure, right?  Because you want to read the book.  Because you enjoy it."  Hermione nodded and he continued, "I don't.  Every book I've ever read has been chosen by my father because he feels there's something I can learn from it.  Something that will help me in life.  I've read the Bible: 'Know thy enemy, Draco.  Better than you know thyself.'  I've read books by Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Voltaire.  Muggle history books.  Magical history books.  But I've never… I've never read anything _I _wanted to read.  Never done anything _I wanted to do, not unless it was already cleared by my father.  And I just… I wanted-"_

            He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut.  His grip tightened on the chair and his breathing increased.  He looked to be in pain, like it hurt to force the words of honesty from his body but he was determined not to break.  Hermione knew how much the truth could hurt.  Knowledge never came easy.  Acknowledging, learning, the truth was hard and painful.  Easy lay with ignorance, with simplicity.  

            "There's something… more."  Draco bit his lip.  "And I'm tired…  I…"

            He shut down, drawing back into himself so rapidly it left Hermione gasping.  The walls tumbled back down, locking in whatever he tried to release, and Draco shoved away from the table.  His chair fell to the floor, unacknowledged.  He didn't look at her as he spun and stalked across the library.  Draco didn't look at Hermione.  But Hermione watched Draco.  She saw the frustration twisting his face.  She saw the tension clenching his fists.  She saw the rage in the set of his shoulders, the strength of his stride, the stiffness of his spine.  He was angry with himself, but whether from revealing too much to her or not enough Hermione did not know.  She only knew that if he left the library, he wouldn't come back.  This interlude would fade away, pushed as far and as fast from his mind as he possibly could make it.  Relations between then would return to normal.  Maybe they would be even more vicious in compensation for the vulnerabilities Hermione had seen.  And she didn't want that.  Not when there was a chance.  A chance to make things different.  A chance to make things better.  For both of them.

            Hermione slid out of her chair and sprinted across the library after Draco.  She reached out.  Her fingertips brushed over his robes, and he froze, stopping so suddenly she nearly crashed into him.  Balancing herself, Hermione stretched her hand across his back.  Her touch was light, delicate for this delicate situation.  She needed to proceed with caution, or she'd push him over the edge.  The wrong edge.  Back to Lucius.  Back to Voldemort.  

            "You don't…"  Hermione sighed and took a moment to gather her thoughts, to gather herself together.  She had one shot.  Failure was not an option.  Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin into the air and straightened her shoulders, ready to take the plunge off this Cliff of Insanity.  "You don't have to say anything.  I understand.  Well, not really, but I do, sort of, if that makes any sense at all, which I'm sure it doesn't.  You don't have to answer my question.  But if you did, I wouldn't tell anyone.  I wouldn't break your confidence.  It's yours to tell.  Not mine.  So you don't, you don't have to leave.  You can just sit.  We can just sit.  Or we could talk.  I mean we haven't even touched on Roman literature, and one can't have a discussion on classical literature without discussing Ovid.  Virgil, too."

            He trembled beneath her palm, and Hermione resisted the urge to smooth her hand across his shoulders.  Draco lowered his head.  A lock of hair, pale, nearly colorless strands, fell into his eyes, twin swirls of turbulent grey.  "Why?"  His voice was low and rough.  Hollow.  "Why would you want me?  Want me to stay?"

            Because I know you.  Because I want to know more.  Because I know you want to be more than a mindless servant to Voldemort.  Because I know you can _be_ more than a mindless servant to Voldemort.  Because I need to know that someone can be saved from this insane war.  Because I need to believe in redemption and forgiveness and hope.  Because.  Just because.

            She said simply, "Because you want to be here."  Pausing, she moved her hand against his back, feeling the lush cotton, the corded muscles, beneath her palm.  "And I think I want you to be here too."

            He turned towards her.  A faint flush stained his cheeks.  Residual pain clouded his grey eyes, but bright rays of hope peeked through the gloom.  Her breath came in fast, shallow pants, and Hermione fought to control herself, control the novel emotions fluttering inside her, but she fought a losing battle.  She realized her hand hovered above his chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, and she drew her hand back towards herself.  Draco followed her hand with his, reaching out to brush one of her unruly curls.  His finger twisted around the auburn lock of hair, and Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from the mesh of ginger on white.  Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look at Draco.  His eyes locked with hers, and she said, "So… are you staying?"  Her voice was not breathless.  It wasn't.

            She waited.  His gaze flickered from her eyes down to her captured lock of hair and then back again.  A slow smile bloomed across his face.  A genuine smile.  Not a smirk or a scowl or a sneer.  But a simple smile.  

            And he said, "Yes."

*                      *                      *


	2. Freedom

Title: Tension and Release

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Harry Potter.  They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc.  No copyright infringement intended.  _

AN: Spoilers for PoA and GoF.  This is a companion piece to the Hermione section: same events, different perspective.  So this is all Draco, what he's thinking, what he's feeling, etc.  Feedback is a wonderful thing.    

Freedom

By: Wynn

            Draco Malfoy lived a life of control.  Control over his appearance: hair perfectly groomed, robes perfectly pressed, shoes perfectly shined.  Lucius always said that one's outer appearance reflected one's inner stasis, and sloppy clothes reflected a sloppy mind.  Malfoys were never sloppy; Malfoys were always cool and collected, a fact demonstrated by their immaculate apparel.      Draco controlled his friends: embracing those who proved most useful to him and his ambitions, discarding those whose use value had waned.  A Malfoy friend was not one to chat with about feelings or girls or Quidditch.  A Malfoy friend was a stepping stone to help one achieve one's goals.  Equally as important as control over one's friends was control over one's enemies.  Draco carefully selected every sneer, every nasty verbal jab that rolled off his lips, using each snarky comment to manipulate his adversaries, prodding them into retaliation or emotional breakdown, whichever was most useful and pleasing to Draco at that time.  

            Most important of all, Draco controlled his emotions.  Lucius always said that allowing others to view one's emotions left one vulnerable.  Vulnerable to manipulation.  Vulnerable to embarrassment.  Vulnerable to pain.  Emotions were not natural reactions to the various stimuli presented by the world.  They were additional tools to use to gain what one wanted.  A trembling lip, a vicious sneer, a wince of pain: all weapons wielded to influence others into doing Draco's bidding.  Draco Malfoy lived a life of control, a life controlled by his father's expectations and the responsibilities accompanying the Malfoy name, and generally, most times, Draco enjoyed his life and the money, power, and prestige it bestowed upon him.

            Sometimes.  Sometimes, however, Draco wished for a release.  For freedom.  Freedom from the control.  Late at night, lying tense and stiff in bed, his body uncomfortable in the plush bedding, unable to release the iron control over his every thought, action, and reaction.  His mind would drift from the rigid confines of beliefs ingrained within him over the past sixteen years and Draco wondered what it was like to _not be a Malfoy.  Wondered what it would like to be free.  Free to eat what one wanted.  Free to say what one wanted.  Free to do what one wanted.  Free to be.  He would indulge in this exploratory line of thought for a moment, for a precious minute or two, before clamping down on these yearnings, shoving them into the deepest, darkest recesses of his subconscious, fearful his father would somehow, some way, know what he was thinking.  And _that _would not be good._

            Draco used to love Quidditch.  Practices were the one time he could be free, live and move and breathe according to impulse instead of a carefully organized plan.  Float on the ever shifting gusts of wind.  Dive because he wanted to see the ground rushing beneath him, the wind whistling in his ear, the air stinging into his exposed skin, and not because he needed to perfect the Wronski Feint in order to beat Potter at their next Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match.  The pressure to win, to wipe the smug grin off Potter's face, erased any pleasure Draco derived from Quidditch.  Each practice became his own personal battle, pitting him against himself, pushing, pushing, pushing harder and harder and harder, flying faster and faster, turning sharper, diving quicker, better, better, better than Potter.  Because practice made perfect.  And perfection allowed for control.  Perfect control over the broom, the turns, the twists, the dives, resulted in a win for Draco and a loss for Potter, and that was the only acceptable outcome for a Malfoy.  Failure was never an option.  

            So Draco lived a life of control, body perpetually coiled, on alert, observant of everything and everyone around him.  And sometimes.  Sometimes he'd see _them.  Across the Great Hall.  At dinner, or some other feast.  And they would be laughing.  Laughing so hard tears streamed down their faces.  Laughing so hard their faces turned red from lack of breath.  Potter taking off his ridiculous glasses to wipe tears from his eyes.  Weasel turning as scarlet as his atrocious hair.  Granger biting her lip in an attempt to stifle her giggles.  And the urge to storm across the Hall and smash all of their faces in would rise up within Draco like a tidal wave.  But he'd just sit.  And stare.  Frozen to the spot by another urge, another wish, residing beneath years and years of hatred and fighting.  Deep down he'd wish.  He'd wish for a moment.  He'd wish he could laugh like that, laugh without malice, without some ulterior motive, laugh just because something was funny.  But base amusements were for idle brains, and Malfoys had much more to occupy their time.  After all, Death Eater training was no stroll in the park.  Countless preparations had to be made, as Lucius told him time and time and time again, as if Draco was small and stupid and incapable of comprehending even the simplest of words.      _

            So Draco searched, covertly, for some form of release from the constant tension of control.  But each release found, each form of freedom, quickly lost its luster, transforming into yet another test of his skills.  Quidditch was a test to beat Potter.  Potions a test to beat Granger.  Or the risk of discovery by his father, his fellow Slytherins, by everyone would grow too high and Draco would have to abandon his newfound freedom.  Because anything Draco derived pleasure from, even the smallest thing, could be used as arsenal in the battle for pride and standing he fought every day.  Nothing stayed.  Everything faded.  Then the search would be on for the next thing, the thing that could not be controlled, the thing through which he could be free.  Free from the expectations of being a Slytherin, from being a Malfoy, from being Draco.

            And it was this search that brought Draco to the library.  To the table currently occupied by Hermione Granger.  Against his better judgment.  Against all of the reflexive cries of Mudblood and pureblood and superiority and dirty resounding through his head.  The need for release overran his need to upkeep the status quo.

            She was alone, a fact for which Draco was eternally thankful.  He didn't need nor want to deal with Potter and the Weasel, not in his current state of mind.  Desperation led to carelessness, and carelessness would lead to an extreme beating by two very pissed Gryffindors.  Draco had to tread very carefully during the next few minutes or he would end up hexed by Hermione as well as beaten to a pulp by the Wonder Twins.

            He needed to tread carefully not only to avoid retribution from the Gryffinsnores, but from his own house, too.  No respectable Slytherin would look too kindly on Draco's little field trip to Mudville.  He wasn't stupid; he took precautions to protect against discovery.  Slipping off to bed early with the excuse of needing adequate rest for Quidditch practice.  Locking his curtains with a charm to prevent any unexpected and unwanted visitors from discovering his absence.  Sneaking out of the dorms through a secret tunnel he'd discovered second year.  Yet for all of his precautions, the risk of discovery still remained.  Slytherins were crafty and naturally suspicious.  Everyone searched for the next scandal like a shark seeking fresh blood.  And if caught, Draco might be able to explain the upcoming conversation with Granger away as a cure for his boredom or a way to manipulate Granger and her emotions.  But if confronted, Draco wasn't sure he could, or would, explain his obvious insanity away.  And that was not of the good, either.  

            Books were piled high on both sides of Hermione's table; rolls of parchment, bottles of ink, and extra quills were stashed and stuffed between the leather bound volumes.  Hermione sat hunched over a piece of parchment, the quill gripped in her ink stained hand flying over the yellowed page, her hair an impenetrable curtain covering face, page, and hand.

            Draco forced himself to grip the back of one of the chairs to keep from reaching across the table and touching Hermione's hair.  It fell halfway down her back, a thick golden brown mass of curls with no rationale or pattern to its existence.  Just utter and complete chaos that hung thick and heavy around her shoulders and tended to frizz during rain storms.  

            And it was the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen.  

            Wild, wanton, luscious curls that Draco needed to touch.  He needed to feel the beautiful chaos within his hands.  Needed to know, to feel, to be.  The need was a physical ache within him, a manifest presence sitting heavily within his stomach.  He tried focusing on something, on anything else, but his thoughts inevitably returned to Hermione and he couldn't shake the image of her ginger curls to save his life.  They were burned into his mind, in a perfect sense memory of beauty and freedom.

            He knew the exact moment she realized he was standing before her.  Her grip tightened on her quill, which gradually slowed to a stop and remained poised above the parchment, hovering in indecision while Hermione debated whether to keep writing and ignore Draco's presence or set the quill down and begin a confrontation.  Draco remained silent, afraid if he opened his mouth he would break down and beg to touch her hair or lash out with a vicious remark, the former of which would make him look like a complete prat while the latter would surely get him hexed.  Or at least significantly lessen his chances of Hermione allowing him within fifty feet of her, let alone allow him to touch her hair.  So Draco waited, calling upon the control he so desperately despised to keep him and his emotions in check.

            A minute passed, followed by a second.  And then Hermione sighed and lowered her quill.  Lifting her head, she pushed a stray curl from her face and shot a resigned, suspicious look at Draco.  His throat tightened at the look, at her automatically assuming the worst about him, at how her assumptions of the worst _were_ usually accurate.  Maybe this was a mistake.  No.  This _was _a mistake.  She hated him.  There was no reason in this world to make her stay and listen to him.  He should turn now and leave before he said anything stupid.  But his legs refused to move, and his hands failed to release their grip on the chair, so he stayed.  In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

            "What do you want, Malfoy?"

            "I-"

            "I really need to finish this essay for Snape, and I have the project for Professor McGonagall I need to start working on, so whatever it is you have to say, just say it and go."

            "I…"  Draco refused to sound like a babbling idiot and utilized the manners taught to him years and years ago by his mother.  Elite society demanded civilized behavior and proper etiquette, a veneer of polish covering the conniving, corrupt center.  He could be polite and charming and solicitous if the need called for it, and the current need most certainly called for all of that and more.  The current need needed a miracle.  "I would very much like to sit here, Hermione," Draco said through clenched teeth.  "If that is alright with you."

            Hermione blinked.  She stared up at him, incredulity shining plainly in her coffee colored eyes.  A moment passed and then she reached for her parchment rolls and quills as she muttered, "There are fifteen other tables in the library.  Why you want mine, I don't know.  But I'm too busy to fight with you-"

            "No."  Before he realized he had moved his hand reached out, stopping a few inches from Hermione's left hand.  Crap.  _That was not a smart thing to do.  She most certainly would interpret any move to stop her from leaving as an act of aggression, as some sort of ploy to keep her here.  Shit.  A ball of lead formed in his gut as he waited for her surely volatile reaction._

            She paused, left hand hovering over the book before her, the other tightly clutching a spare ink bottle.  Her eyes drifted slowly from the book and bottle, over Draco's hand, across the table, up his body, until they met his eyes.  Rage smoldered in the russet depths of her gaze.  She raised one eyebrow and said softly, "Pardon?"

            Fuck.  Her look was deadlier than an _Avada Kedavra spell.  He retracted his hand, replacing it back on the chair.  He needed to think fast to fix this.  "No… I didn't mean that you had to move.  I meant… I wanted to sit here.  At the table.  With you."  There.  He said it.  As politely as possible for a Malfoy and that was pretty damn polite.  Politeness to the point of brittleness.  Each word pinched and clipped and razor sharp in their civility.  _

            He held his breath and regarded her warily as she digested his admission.  Hermione might be the most level-headed of the Dream Team, but she possessed a wicked temper when provoked.  A temper Draco himself had been victim to third year.  He still winced in pain when he remembered her vicious slap to his face.

            "You want to sit here.  With me."

            Draco nodded.  Best not to open his mouth and try to say something.  There was no telling what sort of idiotic statement could slip out.

            Hermione raised the other eyebrow.  "Is this some sort of joke?"

            "No," Draco snapped, his patience cracking under her unflappable nature.  What did she need?  A banner?  A big sign strung across his chest that said 'Enormous, insane prat here.  Please pity and converse with him'?  No doubt Hermione was intelligent, but _fuck.  She could be as dense as a stone wall on occasion.  "It is not some sort of joke.  I am attempting to ask you nicely if I can sit at your table and you're turning it into some marathon worthy event.  It's a simple question, Granger.  Can I sit?  Yes or no."_

             "Um…"  Hermione glanced around the library, empty at this late hour, as if the answer to Draco's very simple question resided behind one of the book stacks.  It wouldn't surprise Draco if it _was hidden somewhere within a dusty leather tome.  What to do when mortal enemy approaches for chat by Hopelessly Foregone Git.  Hermione bit her lower lip as her gaze returned to Draco's face.  "I…"  Closing her eyes, she rubbed a hand across the bridge of her nose.  "I __must be going mad.  Sleep deprivation does tend to do that to a person.  And Harry's always told me I need more sleep…"  She paused, drew in a deep breath, and exhaled, her breath a soft sigh in the preternatural stillness of the library.  "I know I am going to regret this."  _

            Join the club.  

            Opening her eyes, Hermione looked directly at Draco and said, "Yes, Malfoy.  You can sit down."

            Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.  He slid the chair beneath his hands out from under the table and eased down into it.  Hermione regarded his movements with the same expression one would use while watching an inmate at St. Mungo's or a rabid animal.  One would think that by now she would realize he hadn't come here to engage in battle.  One would, but apparently not Hermione.  Draco rolled his eyes.  "You can relax, Granger.  I'm not here to hurt you."

            "I suppose you're here for pleasant conversation then.  A meaningful chat between enemies."

             "Something like that, yeah."

            "Run out of victims in the Slytherin dungeon to listen to you?  I can't imagine why you can't find intelligent conversation there.  I mean, Crabbe and Goyle alone must provide countless hours of deep, philosophic thought."

            "Oh, like Potter and the Weasel are any better.  If it wasn't for you, they would have flunked out of Hogwarts their first year.  I can't imagine you having any conversation with them extending beyond 'Must. Kill. Dark Lord. Now.' and 'Please, sir, can I have some more?'"

            Hermione straightened in her chair, bristling from his sarcasm.  Voice tight with fury, she said, "If this is your version of a meaningful conversation, Malfoy, I'll pass.  Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."  She flung open her Potions text and grabbed her quill.  Jaw clenched, she bent her head over the book, eyes focused intently upon the tiny lettering.  She didn't start writing again, though, and Draco knew she was waiting for him to lose patience and leave.  However, he hadn't come this far to give up yet, so instead of leaving, he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited for Hermione to give up the façade of working and engage him in conversation again.

            Five full minutes passed, and Draco grudgingly admitted to himself he admired Hermione's stubborn streak.  She didn't bow under the pressure of his gaze like so many others would have.  She kept her eyes locked on the text.  But five minutes of stonewalling for a statement even _she _had to admit was true was a bit ridiculous.  Everyone at Hogwarts knew Potter and Weasley weren't paragons of studying virtue.  Their marks were passable at best.  And Draco emphasized 'at best.'  Without Hermione, they never would have survived their first round of exams, much less five years of classes.

            Draco supposed the crack about Potter and the Weasel's conversational skills was slightly snarky.  But it wasn't as though Hermione held back her vitriol any better.  Not one minute into the conversation and she already unleashed a disparaging comment about his housemates.  Draco shook his head.  Women.  Even the most rational ones were completely irrational.

            Her hold on her quill grew tighter and tighter, the knuckles of her hand turning a whiter shade of pale, as time passed.  Draco feared she would break the quill if she held it any tighter.  Heaving another sigh, this one full of so much frustration it nearly brought a smile to Draco's face, she threw down her quill and finally looked at him.  Her gaze was heated.  Aggressive.  Ready and willing to meet the challenge of conversing Draco had laid before her.  Excellent.  Hermione mirrored his pose, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest.  "You want to talk, let's talk.  What is it you want to talk about, Malfoy?  School?  Quidditch?  Secret Death Eater plans?  What?"

            Draco opened his mouth, prepared to retaliate with his own brand of sarcasm, but he shut it before speaking.  This was his one chance.  If he blew it, Hermione would leave the library to escape his presence, and Draco wanted this interaction more than he wanted to let fly the perfect verbal jab.  And Draco always got what he wanted by whatever means necessary, so if he had to swallow his pride and once again try for civilized conversation with this irritatingly stubborn chit, he would do it.

            Best to select a neutral topic of conversation then.  Nothing concerning friends, family, school, Voldemort.  A conversation excluding magic in general would probably be best.  His eyes drifted across the multitudes of books covering the table while his brain scrambled for a topic.  A faint smirk appeared on his face as inspiration struck.  Glancing at Hermione, he said, "Do you ever read anything other than school books?"

            Hermione blinked again.  She looked down at the books strewn across her table and then back up at Draco.  "Yes…  Mostly during summer break.  I don't usually have time during the school year to indulge in extracurricular reading."

            "Too busy saving the world with Saint Potter and the Boy Blunder, I suppose."  Anger flashed in her eyes again, and Draco quickly continued before she could speak.  "So what do you read when you have the time?" 

            Hermione shrugged.  "Lots of different things," she said slowly, still looking at Draco suspiciously.  "I doubt you would know any of the authors.  They're mostly Muggle writers."

            He smiled.  "Indulge my curiosity."

            Tiny white teeth peeked from the confines of her mouth and gently worried her bottom lip.  His gaze drifted from her eyes down to her mouth as she spoke, focusing on the rush of blood staining her pale lips a lush pink.  "Well, I like a lot of classical literature.  I've read some of the ancient Greek playwrights.  I really love Homer's _The Odyssey_.  Much more than _The Iliad.  __The Iliad's full of fighting and bloodshed and whinging, which frankly gets boring after a thousand lines or so.  But _The Odyssey_ has all sorts of mini-adventures and exotic creatures.  I first read it before I knew I was witch and that there was this real world with magical creatures residing in it."  She paused.  "And before I knew that Homer was a wizard and most of the creatures he wrote about were real."  _

            Hermione became more animated during her explanation concerning the virtues of _The Odyssey over __The Iliad.  She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward in her chair; a twinkle of excitement appeared in her eyes.  Her joy from reading was infectious, loosening Draco's own tense posture and bringing a semblance of a genuine smile to his face.  So this was what pure, undiluted pleasure looked like.  Free from some hidden agenda or clandestine motive.  Pleasure for pleasure's sake.  It was… simple.  Nice._

            Hermione trailed off and a faint blush stained her cheeks.  The guarded expression returned to grace her features, and she leaned back in her chair again, putting as much space as possible between herself and Draco.  She tugged on a lock of her hair, twisting the auburn curl around her finger before releasing it, only to recapture it again moments later.  Draco watched the nervous movement, hypnotized by the way the curl bounced back into its corkscrew shape.  He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked.  Anticipation slithered through his belly and his fingers tingled with the need to capture that wildness within his hand.  And all he had to do was lean forward, just a little, and there it would be.  His for the taking.

            "Malfoy?"

            Draco started, grey eyes flying from her fingers to her face.  "Yes?"  His voice did not just squeak.  He felt the tips of his ears grow warm.  Good show, Malfoy.  Letting yourself get caught daydreaming by one of your mortal enemies.  Bloody brilliant move.

            Her eyes narrowed slightly, whether from concern or confusion Draco didn't know.  She opened her mouth to speak, and Draco wondered if she was going to ask if he was alright.  Before he could ask himself whether or not he wanted Hermione to ask about his welfare, she said, "Do you, um, read books?  When you have the time.  That is, when you're not out torturing fist years or sacrificing goats to the Dark Lord."

            His hands clenched into fists and the sneer formed on his face before he realized Hermione was joking with him.  He froze as he discovered that the faint smile on her face wasn't one of malice but one of amusement.  Cautious amusement, yes.  Wary and uncertain.  But amusement nonetheless.  Color him shocked.  He hadn't known Hermione possessed anything resembling a sense of humor.  He knew she had a sharp wit, having it unleashed on him countless times over the past few years, but this almost friendly teasing was a revelation.  Nobody teased Draco.  Ever.  It just wasn't done.  Yet Hermione was doing it, returning Draco's hesitant non-hostile gestures with a sly look in her eyes, and the carefully controlled order ruling his world, order initially cracked by his approach to her table and her acquiescence to his desire to sit down, broke a little more.  The sneer melted away and his hands relaxed as he said, "Yes, those pesky Dark rituals take up so much of my time, what with the laborious incantations and special dance required.  But I have been known to, on occasion, read a book."

            "And what type of book is exalted enough to hold the interest of Draco Malfoy?"

            "One with lots of fighting and bloodshed and whinging."

            One corner of Hermione's lips curved up into a smile.  "So you've read _The Iliad?"_

            "Of course.  It's a family tradition.  Helen of Troy's a distant relation to my family."

            "Seriously?  I don't believe you."

            Draco shrugged.  "Believe what you want.  Doesn't make it any less true.  One of her cousins married into the Malfoy family.  Used her Veela charms to seduce Belial Malfoy away from his first wife.  Quite the scandal back then."

            And she smiled again, a full blown grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes and brought out the dimple marking her right cheek.  She looked nice, pretty even, when she smiled like that.  "Now you expect me to believe that Helen of Troy was a Veela?"

            "Did you honestly believe a normal, human woman could start a war that lasted for ten years?"

            "No, I don't suppose so."  She shook her head, the smile still lingering on her face.  She probably didn't believe him and his admission of familial relations with _the_ Helen of Troy, but Draco didn't care whether she believed him or not.  Even if he was, for once, telling the absolute truth.  As long as she smiled that smile, he would tell her anything, veracity be damned.  So soft and warm.  So unlike the cold sneers or wicked smirks usually directed his way.

            The mirth faded from her face as the silence stretched between them.  Hermione glanced down at her hands.  Her gaze flickered up to his, and a mixture of apprehension and curiosity clouded her vision.  Question time had come.  Draco wondered how long she would sit and chat about books before her inquisitive nature took over and she began to ask him the questions he wasn't sure he could answer.  

            Her mouth opened slightly, but instead of bombarding Draco with questions, her eyes dropped down to the parchment covered table before her.  She wanted to know why he was here, but a few minutes of civilized conversation hadn't completely wiped over five years of insults and torment from her mind.  He felt her retreat back into herself and begin to raise the protective barriers she'd discarded for just a moment.  She looked at him coolly, the distaste Draco had seen every time she'd looked at him the past five years gone, replaced with hesitation and a little bit of fear.  "So-"

            "You can ask, if you want," he said quickly, the words stumbling from his lips with all the grace inherent in a newly borne horse.  His hands clutched the armrests of his chair.  "I won't… I want…"

            Hermione stared at him for a long moment, calmly assessing his eyes, his face, his body, searching for something.  He didn't know what.  Honesty.  Sincerity.  Draco didn't know if he possessed those qualities or was capable of possessing them.  But he met her gaze, unflinching, unblinking, willing her to see what she needed to see.  The moment passed, and then she asked the question he'd been asking himself all bloody night.

            "Why did you come here, Draco?"

            And here it was.  The choice.  He could tell her some bullshit story about a Slytherin bet or boredom or anything other than the truth, throw in the word 'mudblood' a couple of times, and his world would tilt back to normal.  Hermione would hate him again, probably even more than she did now, and Draco would go on living his life of controlled predictability.  He'd graduate Hogwarts, most likely second in his class behind Hermione, accept a cushy job at the Ministry, rising quickly through the ranks to become the youngest Minister of Magic ever, all the while pushing through mandates and referendums created by his father and the other Death Eaters.  He'd marry someone suitable, possibly Pansy, maybe some societal princess he'd never met but who had coveted political connections, and have a child, a boy, an heir to the Malfoy name and fortune.

            Or he could choose.  Choose to tell her, try to tell her, the incomprehensible.  That Draco Malfoy was having a moment of crisis, a crisis of conscience and conviction.  That he was slowly suffocating under his proscribed life, struggling to breathe in the confines constructed by his father and the Dark Lord and the reputation of the Malfoy name.  And that for one moment, just a single moment, he wanted out.  Wanted freedom from the pressures and limitations and expectations.  If he told her, he'd still most likely graduate Hogwarts second in his class, accept a cushy job at the Ministry, and become the youngest Minister of Magic in history, quietly pushing through legislation from Lucius.  But maybe.  Maybe not.

            And this maybe sat before Draco with large coffee eyes, tiny nose scattered with freckles, bow shaped lips, and a cloud of twisting, tangling ginger hair.  This unknown potential in front of him had the tendency to be bossy, stubborn, arrogant, and infuriatingly noble.  This newfound possibility cared about lost causes, exhibited grace under pressure, displayed frightening intelligence and perceptivity, and stood up for what she believed in regardless of the opinions of others.  

            And she had given Draco a chance when everyone else would have told him to shove his wand where the sun doesn't shine.  

            Like most of the choices presented to Draco, he realized his choice was already made for him.  Had been from the moment he snuck out of the Slytherin dorms, made his way to the library, and approached the unapproachable.

            So he opened his mouth and spoke the unspeakable.

            "When you read it's for pleasure, right?  Because you want to read the book.  Because you enjoy it."  Off of Hermione's nod, Draco continued, "I don't.  Every book I've ever read has been chosen by my father because he feels there's something I can learn from it.  Something that will help me in life.  I've read the Bible: 'Know thy enemy, Draco.  Better than you know thyself.'  I've read books by Machiavelli, Nietzsche, Voltaire.  Muggle history books.  Magical history books.  But I've never… I've never read anything _I wanted to read.  Never done anything __I wanted to do, not unless it was already cleared by my father.  And I just… I wanted-"_

            He squeezed his eyes shut.  His hands closed around the armrest, fingers digging into the wood.  "There's something… more.  And I'm tired…  I…"  The words wouldn't come.  They wouldn't come because he didn't know how to make them.  Every word Draco spoke was a lie before tonight, the truth buried beneath layers of sarcasm, deception, ambiguity, and suspicion.  He didn't know the language of truth.  The crisp, clean syllables sparkling with honesty withered on his lips from the overwhelming presence of the supreme ruler of all: fear.  What if she laughed?  He knew she wouldn't, but what if she did?  Or worse.  What if she pitied him, or thought him weak, or stupid?  What if she told everything he said to the Boy Who Lived and his Boy and they all sat and laughed at him?  Rubbed his confessions in his face every time they saw him?  

            What if they, what if _she_, did everything Draco would have done if their positions had been reversed?  Scorned.  Manipulated.  Mocked.  Exploited the weakness to gain the advantage.

            He couldn't let that happen.  He wouldn't let that happen.  Vulnerabilities were weakness and weaknesses were exploited.  It was the way of the world.  Survival of the fittest.  And Draco knew this because he read Darwin, so he knew it's either kill or be killed, and he won't be killed.  He won't let himself be killed.

            Draco shoved back from the table, knocking his chair to the floor.  Without another word, without another glance at Hermione, he strode from the table, from the insanity he had willingly walked into.  Stupid.  He was so stupid.  Father was right.  He was weak and stupid and selfish and not fit for the Malfoy name.  He-

            Her touch was feather light, hovering just above his steel rod spine, but it froze him to the spot more effectively than a _Petrificus Totalus _spell.  Her fingertips touched down again, poised on the smooth fabric of his robes like a bird ready for flight.  Cautious.  Careful.  And Draco couldn't move.  Couldn't breathe.  Her palm pressed against his back, and the heat of her touch burned into him, burned through him.  Strange.  He thought she would be cold.  Mudblood.  Mud.  Dirty, ugly, cold, and slimy.  But she wasn't.  

            He was.        

            "You don't…"  He heard her sigh.  If Draco turned around, he knew he would see her straighten her shoulders and tilt her chin into the air, determined to see this through to the end because she wasn't a quitter.  She wasn't afraid.  "You don't have to say anything.  I understand.  Well, not really, but I do, sort of, if that makes any sense at all, which I'm sure it doesn't.  You don't have to answer my question.  But if you did, I wouldn't tell anyone.  I wouldn't break your confidence.  It's yours to tell.  Not mine.  So you don't, you don't have to leave.  You can just sit.  We can just sit.  Or we could talk.  I mean we haven't even touched on Roman literature, and one can't have a discussion on classical literature without discussing Ovid.  Virgil, too."

            Draco trembled, his body a battleground for the warring tension and release.  He whispered, "Why?"  It was more than a question.  It was a plea.  A prayer.  For mercy.  For compassion.  For salvation.  "Why would you want me?  Want me to stay?"

            "Because you want to be here."  Hermione paused.  Her hand moved against his back, spreading wildfires beneath her palm.  "And I think I want you to be here too."

            He turned.  He couldn't not turn at her simple, sincere declaration.  His heart raced in his chest, and his breath came in shallow, short gasps.  Her eyes were wide and dark and serious, and her hand, outstretched, hovered between them.  She drew her arm back towards her body, and his followed, a tango of limbs, one step forward, one step back.  The tips of his fingers brushed against a lock of her hair, and it felt soft and strong as he threaded his fingers through her auburn curls.  Like Hermione herself.  Strong willed, strong minded, but still warm and soft and caring.  And something shifted inside Draco, some piece he hadn't realized was slightly out of place, and he realized he hadn't come because of her hair.  He came because it was _hers.  Because it was Hermione.  Hermione, who never failed to surprise him, who didn't care if one was a Malfoy or a Muggle as long as they tried to do the right thing._

            "So… are you staying?"  Soft and strong.  Quiet yet certain.  Like she already knew the answer to her question, because he was sure it was written all over his face, but asked it out of formality.  

            Draco smiled.  A smile full of freedom.  Of possibilities.  Of starting over and second chances.  And Draco strayed from his predictably controlled path, gleefully crashing through the unknowable, uncontrollable woods, as he said simply, "Yes."

*                      *                      *


	3. Wonderland

Title: Tension and Release

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgentsunhotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of _Harry Potter_. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc. No copyright infringement intended.

AN: This is a continuation of Tension and Release. More parts may come in the future if I can find the time to write them. This chapter contains a partial quote from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode "Life Serial." Also, many thanks to Mariedel for betaing. Feedback is a wonderful and much appreciated thing.

Part Three: Wonderland

By: Wynn

Crisp white snow crunched underneath Hermione's boots as she cautiously made her way down the steps leading from the front door of Hogwarts to the cold, quiet grounds surrounding the castle. The chilled night air stung her nose and throat as she breathed in. Tears flooded her eyes and clouded her vision. Grabbing her wand, she muttered a warming spell, sighing as warmth flooded over her, shielding her from the harsh winter air. She knew she should be inside, curled up next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, sitting someplace warm, someplace hospitable, and _not_ tramping about after dark in December, but she needed a break. She needed some space. The atmosphere inside Gryffindor tower, inside Hogwarts as a whole, could be described, at best, as tense. At worst: suffocating. And currently, everything was at its absolute worst.

Since the start of sixth year, reports had slowly trickled in as to increased activity among Voldemort and his followers. Lately, however, the reports had not trickled in. They flooded in, burying the school beneath rolled pieces of cream parchment carrying urgent messages from the outside world. Messages about mysterious disappearances. Messages about destruction. Messages about death. Voldemort was increasing his activity, becoming bolder with each blow struck, each battle won, and the wizarding world, including Hogwarts, was scared.

Terrified, more like it. War was coming. It was inevitable. It was not a question of _if_ it would happen, but a question of _when_. If not today, then tonight. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Lines were drawn, and lines were crossed, and everyone was choosing sides. The giants, the dementors, the goblins, everyone and everything. Choosing and waiting. Waiting for the beginning. Waiting to die. And everyone, from Dumbledore down to the most naïve first year, knew it. The fear seeped out of everyone, students, teachers, constant, consistent, staining the stone walls with stark terror, filling the corridors and classrooms, pressing down upon Hermione until she could no longer breathe from the weight of everyone's apprehension and wide-eyed, panicked stares of dread. Because all eyes were on her. Her and Ron and Harry. They all looked to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to save them, to unleash the miracle and save them all from Voldemort like they had so many times in the past. Nobody said it out loud, of course, but they all looked. And they all pleaded. And Hermione didn't know what to do or what to say or how to act.

Nobody did.

Not even book worm, study freak, child prodigy Hermione, and that scared her most of all. Her books were useless. There was no grand plan hiding amongst the stacks, waiting to be unleashed and safely rid the world of Voldemort once and for all. The plan had been set in motion fifteen years ago, churning along until its inevitable, prophesied conclusion. Voldemort would die or Harry would die. Everything rested on them and their last battle. Either everyone would be saved or everyone would be damned.

If they weren't already dead.

Because people would die along the way to that final confrontation. Voldemort would see to that. He'd send his giants, his Death Eaters, his dementors, in wave after wave after wave of onslaught, gradually wearing everyone down from the constant pressure and presence of violence and bloodshed. And then he'd go for the killing blow.

And Harry would die.

Hermione stopped halfway to the lake, feeling bile rise up in her throat at the thought of Harry dying. Or maybe it was at the half-hysterical thoughts spinning through her mind. She was slipping out of control, losing her rationality amidst all the panic permeating Hogwarts. Harry had faced Voldemort five times. _Five_ times and he'd survived them all. He would survive this one too. She'd make sure of it. She'd find a way to keep him alive, and if she couldn't find a way, she'd think of one herself. But now she needed a moment away from everyone to collect her thoughts and re-establish some order to her mind.

And then she'd research and she'd study and she'd plot and she'd burn through every book in the library searching for a way to help Harry.

A way to help them all.

Closing her eyes, Hermione ended the warming spell. The cold air assaulted her senses, shocking her system awake, shaking off the tangling webs of uncontrolled fear cluttering her mind. She breathed deeply, tilting her face up towards the night sky. A faint wind brushed across her skin, over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, sending shivers coursing through her body. She opened her eyes and peered at the moon hanging above her head. Silver-white and shining behind the ephemeral ivory clouds. Her mind flashed back to that moment in the library a month ago, when she peered at a pair of silver-white eyes shining behind strands of ivory hair.

Draco.

She dropped her face to the ground as a flush spread across her skin. She would not think about him. She would not. She would not analyze and deconstruct and evaluate those few minutes in the library. She wouldn't. Not again. They were an anomaly, a slight deviation from the norm. Nothing more. A momentary détente between adversaries. That's all. A brief respite from the insults and the bickering.

Only the bickering and insults hadn't continued after that night. Not really. Draco still antagonized Ron and Harry and everyone else in the school who wasn't in Slytherin at every opportunity, but to Hermione… to Hermione there was nothing. No cries of Mudblood. No scathing remarks about her hair or her teeth. Not a glare. Not a scowl. Not a glower. Just a glance, a flicker of his eyes towards her, a shuttered acknowledgement of her presence. And then he was gone, in a billow of black robes and a blacker mood.

She'd turned their interlude over and over in her mind, searching for the hidden clue that would unlock the mystery and allow her to understand just what had driven Draco to the library in search of her that night. He'd told her he came because he knew there was something more than the carefully controlled world created by his father. But what did that mean? Did he think he would find that elusive something more with Hermione? And then he didn't? Is that why he hadn't spoken to her since? Because of disappointment? In her? In their conversation? Was she… lacking something?

Hermione's fists clenched, wrinkling the cotton gloves protecting her hands. She wasn't lacking anything. Sure, she wasn't the most attractive girl in school, but she wasn't… ugly or anything. She'd finally achieved some modicum of control over her hair, taming her unruly mane into bushy curls instead of her usual amorphous frizz. And her teeth were normal sized, had been since fourth year. Her eyes were nice, a little big maybe. Ok, so they were brown instead of a vibrant green like Harry's or cool grey like Draco's, but they were nice. Warm. And she had many other positive and noteworthy qualities besides physical attributes. She was intelligent and a talented witch; she could be funny, on occasion. And she listened to that smarmy bastard when anyone else would have told him to piss off, so what more could he have wanted?

She slowed to a stop at the edge of the lake, ruthlessly biting down on her lower lip. She would not cry. She wouldn't. Not for him. He wasn't worth it. Not worth her time or her attention. Not under normal circumstances and certainly not during wartimes when there were a thousand other things more important than whether or not Draco Malfoy wished to converse with her.

Then why had she come outside instead of to the library, the place she usually escaped to when she desired solitude and peace and quiet?

Because he might have been there, wanting to continue their discussion of Classical lit, continuing on as if the past month of avoidance never occurred.

Because he might not have been there, like every other time she had been in the library at night, alone with her books and her thoughts.

Hermione sniffed and rubbed a hand across her eyes. She conjured a small bench and sank down upon the bare wood. The surface of the lake, ice covered and mirror smooth, glimmered with moonlight and starlight, creating dual heavens before her eyes. She kicked at the snow bordering the ice as she muttered, "Stupid Slytherin. Stupid, arrogant, amoral prat."

"I always fancied rat-faced bastard myself."

Hermione's head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Heart pounding beneath her chest, she spun off the bench, coming face to face with Draco Malfoy. He was a black and white vision, clad in a thick black wool cloak and a silver scarf. His hair, curling around his ears and skimming his chin, glowed iridescent in the moonlight. And his eyes… shining silver-white beneath ivory lashes.

"Hello, Hermione. May I sit down?"

* * *

The sky stretched above Draco, inky black and dotted with twinkling points of gleaming white starlight. He drew in a deep breath, grimacing as the frigid winter air bit into his throat and lungs; his eyes traveled over the star-encrusted expanse of the sky, drinking in the monochromatic landscape. Everything looked clearer in the cold. Sharper and more precise. The world of spring and summer was hazy, covered in a film of warmth and love and humidity that clouded everything, making the world seem innocuous and benign. But in winter… in winter, everything was starker, stripped down, and laid bare, devoid of the deceptive cocoon of warm air accompanying summer. In winter, nothing was sugarcoated. Nothing was sentimental.

Which was what Draco needed now. He needed the harsh clarity of winter. He needed to be able to think clearly, to analyze the events unfolding around him, and he couldn't accomplish that if he remained in the Slytherin common room. There was too much confusion and fear in the air. War was brewing, and the time was rapidly approaching for all Slytherins to choose which side of the war one wanted to be on. Because no one would be allowed to remain neutral in this conflict, not even a bunch of boarding school kids. It was kill or be killed, Draco knew, and not sit back and watch everyone else kill each other. The future of the wizarding world was on the line, dependent upon the outcome of the final conflict between an insane, newly resurrected dictator and an irritating prat with a martyred hero complex, and everyone was expected to step across the proverbial line of good and evil one way or the other.

And for the first time in Draco's life he was at a loss as to what to do. His father was locked away in Azkaban, had been for six months, and his influence over the Malfoy household was waning. Little changes occurred at first. Mealtimes, previously held in the formal dining room, were moved to the tiny alcove off the kitchen. Random pieces of artwork favored by Lucius, a rug here, a sculpture there, were either replaced or simply removed altogether. Letters from home contained more personal, intimate writings from Narcissa; in the last letter Draco received, his mother had gone so far as to tell him she missed him. It was encoded, of course, in case of prying eyes. Still, the sentiment was there, in feeling and in writing, something that would never have occurred under Lucius' reign as head of household. Lucius always said that sentiment was for simpering buffoons, not for the premiere family of the wizarding world.

Draco knew that if Lucius was still around and not locked deep inside Azkaban, he wouldn't be having this existential crisis. His path would be laid out for him, ending in a Dark Mark branded on his forearm and eternal allegiance paid to a pasty git completely obsessed with killing a sixteen year old moron. End of discussion.

But Lucius wasn't here.

He wasn't here because he was in Azkaban, locked away for the rest of his life unless Voldemort spared a few moments in his quest to murder Potter to break him and the rest of the captured Death Eaters out. But it didn't matter if Lucius was free again. His name was tarnished and no amount of money or blackmail would ever restore the gleam of glory previously associated with it. Too many people knew he had been at the Ministry fighting side by side with Voldemort. He wouldn't be able to bribe and blackmail his way back to respectability. Voldemort had to win or Lucius Malfoy would be ruined: either killed outright during the war or imprisoned within Azkaban for the next hundred years and _then_ killed.

And in Draco's estimation, the odds weren't in favor of Voldemort winning. His track record against Potter unfortunately spoke for itself. Five times the two had faced off, and five times Potter had come out victorious: the first of which when he was a baby. A sodding baby. As much as Draco loathed admitting it, the bespectacled git had the annoying tendency of winning. A long and glorious rule by the Dark Lord looked like a distant possibility, and it seemed that following in Lucius' footsteps to become a Death Eater led to one destination and one destination only.

Death.

And Draco didn't want to die. Not any time in the near or the distant future. He was quite happy being alive. He had plans, a list of things he wanted to do a kilometer long, and not anywhere on the list was 'die bleeding and gasping in a mud-filled battlefield.' But his desire to stay alive, and thus, by proxy, decide _not _to become a doomed Death Eater, left Draco with only one option, an option that violently and repeatedly activated his up-chuck reflex.

Side with Potter and become one of Dumbledore's self-righteous minions.

Maybe death wasn't such a horrible option after all.

Draco sighed. Maybe he could move to Switzerland. _They _were allowed to remain neutral in both magical and Muggle affairs. Why were they so special? Why couldn't _he_ turn his back on the whole ruddy affair and live his life the way he wanted, free from Potter and Voldemort and their Epic Struggle for the Ages? But Draco knew that if _he _tried to remain neutral, he would be branded a traitor by the vast majority of the Slytherins supporting Voldemort and deemed a spy for the dark side by the do-gooder brigade. Either way he was dead.

Fuck.

Bloody stupid wars.

Draco cursed and leaned back against one of the trees surrounding the lake. Maybe following Dumbledore wouldn't be _too _bad. Maybe if Draco took the time to really get to know Potter and his cronies instead of hurling insults and curses at them at every opportunity, he would discover that Potter was really an alright bloke. A swell guy. A decent person.

Yeah, and maybe Potter and Voldemort would elope to Vegas, get married, and then go raise penguins together in Guam.

What was he going to do? Maybe he should just _Avada _himself now and-

Draco stiffened as the rhythmic crunching of snow and ice reached his ears, interrupting his increasingly morose and rather morbid thoughts. Who the hell would be coming out here, in freezing temperatures, this late at night? Had one of the professors seen him creep through the corridors and outside the castle? Slipping behind the tree, Draco peeked around the other side, searching for whoever else had decided to embark on a late night stroll to the lake.

It was Granger. Of course. Draco had avoided the library for a bloody month trying to stay away from her. Tonight, he'd even braved the elements and trudged outside on the coldest fucking night of the year instead of going to the library for the peace and quiet he so desperately craved because he hadn't wanted to run into her. Yet here she was. Outside. Walking straight towards the lake. Straight towards Draco.

Life had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

And it wasn't that Draco didn't want to see Hermione. He did. Talking with her had been surprising. Stimulating. Interesting. Around Potter and the Weasel, Hermione remained in overbearing, bossy, know-it-all, prude mode. Without those two losers, she was still a bossy know-it-all. But she was also witty and more relaxed. More capable, or more willing, to see Draco as something more than just an Evil Slytherin with a Daddy Death Eater. But that was the problem. Being around her was too dangerous. He thought… differently around her. He acted differently. Decidedly un-Draco-like. And in these times acting decidedly un-Draco-like put him on the fast track to Death and Ruin.

He watched her stop halfway to the lake. She closed her eyes and tilted her face towards the sky, breathing in deeply. The tension vibrating through her body eased off some as she sucked in the crisp air. The set of her shoulders relaxed; the pinched line between her brows smoothed over. She wore her winter cloak and gloves; her Gryffindor scarf curled around her neck, a blazing red and yellow that clashed horribly with the lavender cap she wore on her head. Her hair bushed out around the cap, a russet cloud of curls framing her pale face. She exhaled slowly as she opened her eyes to stare up at the moon. A blush spread across her cheeks and she dropped her face down towards the ground.

Draco raised an eyebrow at the play of emotions dancing across her face. The stubborn set returned to her jaw, and she thrust her shoulders back as she continued her trek towards the lake. Anger bloomed across her delicate features, fading as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a mixture of hurt and confusion.

He wondered what had driven her from the castle. Probably something idiotic done or said by the intellectual wonder duo Potter and the Weasel. Honestly, what did she see in those two morons? Her continued interactions with them must have been a play on her part for sainthood. She couldn't truly enjoy their company, could she? Draco grimaced at the thought. He knew Granger was noble and all that rot, but fraternizing with Potter and Weasley pushed every boundary even peripherally associated with nobility.

Hermione stopped by the lake's edge, only five feet or so from Draco. Her gaze swept across the frozen lake as… as… Oh god no. _No_. She was going to cry. Her teeth clamped down on her trembling bottom lip, and tears welled within her eyes. Draco eased back behind the tree, panic spinning through his mind like an out-of-control Filibuster firework. Shit. _Shit_. What was he supposed to do? Stand there and listen to her snivel and cry? Go and try to comfort her? Draco didn't know the first thing about comforting a crying girl, let alone a crying Gryffindor.

Potter was _so _dead for putting Draco in this situation. Draco might not know about comforting crying girls, but he knew a thing or two about revenge. What had that git said to make Hermione break down like this? Whatever it was, it wouldn't be half as bad as Draco's severe beating of Potter would be. Idiot. Stupid, stupid Gryffindor.

"Stupid Slytherin. Stupid, arrogant, amoral prat."

Well, fuck.

Of course it would be Draco's fault she was crying. He hadn't even seen Hermione for a month, an entire freaking month, and somehow he found a way to make her cry. Not one nasty glare had been shot her way. Not one curse or insult or malicious smirk. Nothing. Yet she was still crying. Over him.

He had to fix this.

Draco blinked. He did not just think what he thought he just thought. He didn't _fix _anything. He _broke _things. Gleefully smashed things into a million tiny pieces and didn't spare one thought as to how the pieces would be put back together again.

But he had to fix this.

Now.

How he would fix this was another matter altogether.

Fortune favors the brave, and while Draco wouldn't exactly characterize himself as _brave_ (that was a trait reserved for retarded Gryffindors who held no value in self-preservation), Draco did have copious amounts of snark and sarcasm in his arsenal. Maybe fortune wouldn't completely screw him over this time.

Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped around the tree. Hermione sat on a conjured bench, facing away from him, kicking at the ice and snow rimming the lake. Squaring his shoulders, he opened his mouth and said, "I always fancied rat-faced bastard myself."

Hermione spun off the bench. She stared at him wide-eyed, mouth hanging open in shock. Her cheeks and nose were still flushed red, but thankfully no tracks of tears marred her face.

"Hello, Hermione. May I sit down?"

* * *

Five, ten, twenty seconds of silence passed as Hermione stared slack-jawed at Draco. What was he doing here? Had he followed her? Oh, god, had he seen her cry? Had he _watched_ her cry? Why didn't he turn right back around and march right back up to the castle? Why had he approached her now? What was so special about now and not any other moment of the past month? Was it because she was alone? Could he not be seen being civil to her in public? Would it sully his good pureblood, Slytherin name to talk with a Gryffindor Mudblood?

The minute mark came and went, and Draco started squirming under her intense scrutiny. Blinking once, Hermione shook herself from her shocked stupor, narrowed her eyes, and let fly all of the million questions that had been buzzing in her brain for the past four weeks. "What are you doing here?"

"I-"

"Did you follow me down here?"

"What? Follow? No, Granger, I did notfollow you down here. In point of fact, _I _was down here first, so if anyone followed anyone, _you _followed _me_."

"I didn't follow you here, Malfoy. I didn't even know you were out here until you spoke."

"Well, I didn't know you were out here until… until…" Draco trailed off. He grimaced as his gaze dropped down to the snow.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and raised one eyebrow. "Yes? Until? Until what?"

Eyes flashing with irritation, Draco snapped, "Until I spotted you walking down here, Ok?"

"Oh. So you saw me walking down here and decided to watch me without my knowledge? You were spying on me instead of following me? That's so much better. Truly it is."

Hands fisted, Draco moved a couple steps closer to Hermione. "I was not spying on you, Granger. Do you think I concocted this terribly complicated scheme to lure you out of your common room in the middle of the night to go tromping down to the lake so I could crouch behind a sodding tree and watch you snivel and cry? Yeah, that's _exactly _what I want to do with my time."

Hermione bristled at his mocking tone. "Well," she said through clenched teeth, "since I'm wasting so much of your precious time with my _sniveling_ and my _crying_, I'll just go now." She stomped past him, the ends of her scarf whipping in the air behind her. What a jerk. She would not cry. She wouldn't. He was a smarmy bastard. A smarmy, sarcastic, Slytherin bastard. Nothing more.

She heard him groan and mutter, "Oh, for fuck's sake," before he sprinted after her. "Wait, Granger. Granger! Hermione, would you bloody wait a moment?!"

Hermione stopped and spun back around toward Draco, mouth open to tell him she would _not_ be waiting a bloody moment. Before she could though, he crashed into her, knocking them both to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs. They remained still for a few seconds, breathless, staring at each other in shock, and then Hermione realized she was _under _Draco Malfoy and started squirming beneath said Draco in an attempt to crawl out from under him. She pushed against his chest as she said, "Would you get the bloody hell off me, Malfoy?!"

"I'm trying! Quit squirming! You keep knocking my hands out from under me!"

"That's because your hands are _on_ me!"

"They keep sliding on the snow! How the hell else am I supposed to get enough leverage to get off you?"

"Like this!" Hermione maneuvered her knee up against his chest beside her hands and shoved. Draco flew off her, landing on his arse a few feet away from her. Sitting up, Hermione brushed bits of snow off her cloak and straightened her cap on her head.

"What exactly is your problem?" he snapped.

"My problem?" She glanced at Draco, who glared invisible daggers at her through disheveled platinum hair. "I don't have a problem."

"Yes, you do. You have many, many problems. Your problems are vast and numerous. But the one I'm referring to is your tendency toward violence when you're around me. First you slapped me-"

"You deserved it! You were being nasty!"

"And now you kicked me-"

"I did not kick you, you baby. Stop whining."

Draco's jaw tightened. He pushed off the ground and stalked over to Hermione. She caught herself before she leaned away from him and forced herself to stare at him defiantly. Glaring down at her, he said, "You're one to talk about whining, what with the whole crying by yourself by the lake bit. A bit pathetic, isn't it, crying in the middle of the night over me? I mean, I know I-"

Hermione lashed out with her leg, kicking the backs of Draco's knees and sending him tumbling back down into the snow again. She sprang up from the ground, rage coursing through her, turning her vision red. Trembling, she said, "You are _the _most arrogant, rude, and horrible prat I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. How dare you attack me now! What kind of person attacks another person who's obviously at a low moment? Grow up, Malfoy. I can't believe I _ever _thought you might be a halfway decent person. Obviously, I was wrong. That is a mistake I won't be making again, I assure you."

She knew she was crying now. Tears flowing down her face, nose running, eyes puffing up, but she didn't care. Let Draco snitch to all of his stupid House mates that he saw Hermione Granger break down and cry like a stupid little girl. Their opinions didn't matter anyway, and neither did Draco's. Certainly not to her or to anyone else with half a brain.

Draco stood. He stared at her, his grey eyes wide and wary. He grimaced again, gaze floating up to the sky, and something flashed across his face, disappearing before Hermione could process it. Eyes flickering back down to her, he said, "I… Hermione… Bloody hell, stop crying. Please. Please stop crying."

"Why? Am I making you uncomfortable? Tough shit. You deserve it for acting like an idiot."

"Possibly, but-"

"Possibly? _Possibly_? You were not possiblyan idiot. You were, you are, definitelyan idiot."

Irritation twisted his features. "I am not an idiot. You kicked me. You kicked me, told me I was a whining baby, and I got pissed. How the hell else was I supposed to react?"

"I didn't kick you-"

"You fucking kicked me, and you bloody well know it, Granger."

Hermione sighed, the fight and the fire fading inside of her. She rubbed one gloved hand over her face. She was tired, tired of crying, tired of being out in the cold, and tired of fighting with Draco Malfoy. All she had wanted was a moment of peace and quiet. Just one bleeding moment. Wearily, eyes closed, she said, "I know. You're right. I'm sorry I kicked you, Malfoy. I didn't mean it, alright? I'm tired and I'm stressed and you had to go and say that crack about wasting your precious time, and I overreacted. It won't happen again. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go to bed before I do anything else violent."

She turned away from Draco and headed back toward the castle. It had been a mistake to come out here. It had been a mistake to let Draco affect her the way he did, make her think he could be different, make her think he could think of her differently. Hermione shook her head. Everything between them had been one mistake after another, one slap, one curse, one kick, one slur after another, and she was tired of it. Tired of it all.

And then he said, "Wait. Hermione. Please." And his voice, so unlike the cold drawl spoken to her over the past five years, his words, not calculating and cutting and confident but pleading and sincere and fragile, made her stop.

* * *

She stopped. She actually stopped. Well. That was unexpected. Maybe there was something to this whole asking nicely thing after all. But then this night had been one surprise after another for Draco, what with the crying and the kicking and his multiple usage of the word 'please,' so watching Hermione Granger comply with one of his requests shouldn't have been that shocking. But it was. And now she was waiting for him to say something, anything, and he couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Which was also shocking in and of itself. Although not as shocking as Draco expected it to be since he had been rendered speechless by Granger many times in the past. But most times in those situations he just slunk off, sneer firmly in place, hiding his inevitably wounded pride beneath a haughty veneer. But slinking off now would be detrimental to his determination to make things right, and once Draco set his mind to accomplishing something, he almost very nearly accomplished it, unless it happened to be catching the snitch against that lunkhead Potter, in which Fate seemed determined to deal him the cruelest of the cruel hands and-

Draco started out of his increasingly rambling reverie as Hermione spoke. "If you've got something to say, bloody well say it, Malfoy. Otherwise-"

"Just shut up a minute, Granger, alright? I _do _have something to say-"

"Then say it."

"I'm trying-"

"I'm waiting."

"Quit interrupting me! For fuck's sake, can you stop talking for one second? If you hadn't noticed, I'm trying to be serious here and fix whatever I did to make you cry, and you seem determined to bollix it all up, which, in retrospect, is probably a good thing since I haven't got a bloody clue what I did to you and thus no idea how to fix _anything_. I haven't said anything mean or nasty to you the past month. I haven't screwed up your potions in Snape's class or picked fights with you in Arithmancy. I've been a perfect fucking angel who's done his best to stay out of your way, and when I do chance to actually speak with you, you fly off the bloody broom handle, accuse me of spying on you, call me a whining baby, and knock me on my arse not once but twice!"

Hermione rounded on him, marching over to Draco until they were nose to nose. Eyes sparking with anger, she poked a finger at his chest and said, "Well, to quote you, 'how the hell else was I supposed to react?' After five years of name calling and petty bothering, you did a complete one-eighty and actually conversed civilly with me for a half-hour. And then you avoid me for four weeks, only to show up in the least expected place possible, crack a lame joke about yourself, and then proceed to insult me, knock me over, and then insult me _again_. You are seriously disturbed, Draco Malfoy, and excuse me for not being able to predict which personality you choose to exhibit tonight."

"Still not understanding the problem here, Granger. Are you insane because I tried to talk to you? Or are you acting barmy because I stopped talking to you?"

Hermione remained silent and stared stubbornly at a point slightly above Draco's left shoulder. Draco moved into her field of vision, catching her eyes with his. "What is your problem with me, Granger?" She scowled at him, and the force of the emotions swirling within her toffee eyes nearly made him abandon this entire fool's pursuit. Nearly, but Draco had perfected the art of being a Stubborn Bastard, and there was no way in hell Hermione Granger was going to out-stubborn him. Not tonight. Not ever. "Answer me."

"Why should I?"

Draco blinked, caught off guard by her simple question. He had been expecting hostility mixed with frustration and resentment; instead Hermione had opted for cool, quiet logic. After a moment's hesitation, he answered, "Because I asked you to."

"And what weight does your request hold with me?" Draco opened his mouth to respond, an irritated quip residing on the tip of his tongue, but Hermione cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. "I'm serious. Why should I answer you? We're not friends."

"No, but we're not enemies anymore. Doesn't that count for something?"

Hermione raised one eyebrow. "You don't think we're enemies anymore? Why? Because of one halfway normal conversation followed by a month of silence? That doesn't make you my friend, Draco. It just makes you seriously confused."

"I am _not _confused. What did you think would happen, Granger, if everyone suddenly saw us chatting together? These are delicate times, and any deviation from the norm is considered dangerous. Do you want to be labeled a traitor-?"

"No-"

"Because that's what would happen if your House mates saw us together."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione said, "I sincerely doubt everyone would think I suddenly decided to jump ship and follow Voldemort. I'm a Mudblood, remember? It's Voldemort's target population for extermination. If anything, us being seen together would label _you _as the traitor."

"Exactly. And Slytherins don't take too kindly to betrayal by one of their own."

"What?" Hermione's brows drew together in confusion. "You don't seriously think they'd… they'd _kill _you, do you?"

Draco said nothing. He simply met Hermione's gaze. Confusion quickly gave way to shock on her face, only to be replaced by a grim contemplation. She licked her lips and drew in a shaky breath as she processed his silent reply. Thick flakes of snow began falling around them, sticking to the ends of Hermione's curls and dotting her cloak and scarf. She shivered slightly and then she said quietly, "So why are you out here, talking with me, if it's so dangerous?"

Her face was open and unguarded; her eyes shone with concern and curiosity. She tilted her head to one side and regarded him as Draco attempted to untangle the mass of emotions, wants, and motivations fueling his actions. He didn't know why he was here, talking with her. He knew it was dangerous, to her and to him. He didn't know why he wanted to make things right with her, to make her stop crying over him. She was the enemy, a Mudblood know-it-all Gryffindor. He just knew that he didn't want to be anywhere else right now and that he didn't want to see her cry.

A flash of black crossed his vision. Draco stiffened as Hermione's gloved hand passed before his face. The tips of her fingers brushed against his brow, easing back a stray lock of his hair. His eyes flew to her face. The look on her face… she had never looked at him like this before. Nobody had. Her expression was tired and worn, but it was tender. Hopeful.

Her hand drifted from his face, ghosting its way down the side of his body. The almost-touch burned into him. He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the effects of her touch, feeling something break and shift and settle inside him. Her fingertips grazed against his, and his hand curled around hers, clasping her hand within his own.

"I don't understand it either," she whispered. "But I want to be here, too."

end


End file.
